Page 2 of Fast Currents
I’d forgotten how good it felt to be touched.
“That’s good enough,” I said, my voice huskier than I intended. I cleared my throat and nudged his hand away. “Hand me a towel?”
He helped me wrap my hair, and I flipped my head back, the blood rush making me bobble unsteadily on my feet.
“Whoa, Luce.” Clay dropped his hands to my shoulders. “You okay?”
I nodded, thankful when the world didn’t spin again.
“Just a moment of vertigo.” We stood chest to chest, my breasts barely grazing the buttons on his shirt pockets. Clay pasted on smiles like part of his uniform, so seeing him frown down at me was disconcerting. “I’m fine.”
I stepped away hastily, needing to escape. His hands fell to his sides. Toweling my hair dry under his watchful gaze left me aware of every inch of him. Big and tall, built like an outdoorsman, he was impossible to ignore. Instead of stepping out of the bathroom, giving me space, he settled back against the sink, massive arms folded across his chest.
“I don’t need a minder, Clay.” I dropped my gaze to his hands propped on his biceps. “But you might.”
He followed the direction of my gaze, cursing quietly as he realized he’d failed the first rule of hair dye: always wear gloves. His palms had turned an interesting shade of purplish-black, like a diseased zombie.
He pivoted to the sink, squirting soap onto his palms, scrubbing his hands under the faucet until his skin retained only a hint of purple. He caught my gaze in the mirror, a taunting grintaking over his features. His hand-rubbing slowed, taking on an almost sensual beat.
“Lucifer, if this is your way of marking me as yours, I think there are better ways. I’m happy to share all my best ideas over a drink tonight.”
Imagining his rough hands sliding over mine, his knees tangling with my thighs while we sat at a bar, tempted me for a moment. Clay promised a good time with his shameless flirting, and I loved a challenge, but I’d earned my independence. Giving into Clay’s charms went against everything I’d promised myself.
“Not a chance, Robertson.”
“Then you’d best show me to the art supplies, and I’ll cart them back to the park.” He eyed me as he finished drying his hands. “You’re still coming at four to set up for your first class?”
I rolled my bottom lip beneath my front teeth. As much as I wanted to back out, it was too late now. I’d committed to a fall art series at the American Camp visitor center in a weak moment.
“I’ll be there,” I promised.
Chapter 2 – Clay
Driving from Lucy’s apartment behind her studio to American Camp on the south end of the island gave me some much-needed time to settle down. My discolored hands on my steering wheel made me grin. Tweaking her tail was fun, and she gave as good as she got. Matching wits with Lucy made me feel alive again. She never let me slide. Never failed to fire back if I said something silly.
There was no pity in her gaze when she looked at me. Nope. More like pure venom. But the friendly kind. It was a welcome change after all the condolences and sad hugs. Like I was awake again.
Getting her to agree to spend the fall as our resident artist had been quite a coup. One I still couldn’t quite believe. I’d lucked into a dream posting with the parks service. The San Juan Island National Historical Park included American Camp and British Camp parks, one on each end of the island. Managing the volunteers and running the information center were just the distraction I needed.
Driving from the tiny town of Friday Harbor, Washington, to the visitor center took less than twenty minutes. I had responsibility for over fifteen miles of hiking trails and welcomed over a half-million visitors each year. While the busy season was winding down with kids going back to school, we’d still see our share of wildlife photographers and tourists year-round.
I parked behind the visitor center. Only a few years old, it was a beautiful structure, both contemporary and rustic. Simple, using natural wood tones and materials, it was more accessible than the old structure and offered a pergola that at least gave the illusion of shade in the hot summer months.
“Good morning, Karen.”
Karen’s dark eyes sparkled. Dressed in standard khaki pants and shirt with a volunteer vest over the top, she radiated quiet competence. Her salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed in a bob that emphasized her strong chin. Her mouth quirked. “Nice hands.” She had retired as a schoolteacher, but her love of hiking and island history led to her volunteering in the visitor center. “Are those the supplies for this afternoon?”
“They are. Lucy should be here at four.”
“I pulled the registration rosters when I came in and printed them for you. They’re on your desk in the back. Looks like you’ve got three full classes.” Her eyes danced. “I recognize most of the names on the grade school and upper grades classes. A few will give Lucy a run for her money. But I fear it’s the seniors who will be the real challenge.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
Karen chuckled. “Barbara Fenwick and Ollie Reyes both signed up.”
I stopped in my tracks. “Is Barbara Gran Fenwick’s given name?”
“Yup.”
